Broomsticks and Buns (of the iced variety)
by SilverMooonshine
Summary: Rolanda Hooch continued down the corridor, not letting her yellow eyes flicker to the group of girls who thought their comments and giggles were quiet enough. They might have been to anyone else, but years on the pitch had sharpened her senses like razors. She was like a hawk.


**Written for the QLFC Semi Finals: Support Staff**

 **Position:** Harpies, Chaser 2

 **Prompts:**

Write about Madam Hooch's first day

4 (restriction) no using the pronoun 'I'

10 (word) pretend

11 (picture) wilted roses

 **Word Count:** 1,337

 **This was inspired by the story of Mr Bates on Downton Abbey, which I won't think about too much or else I might cry because I don't want it to end. Enjoy!**

* * *

"How can she teach _Quidditch_?"

Rolanda Hooch continued down the corridor, not letting her yellow eyes flicker to the group of girls who thought their comments and giggles were quiet enough. They might have been to anyone else, but years on the pitch had sharpened her senses like razors. She was like a hawk.

She could smell the rain in the air, and adjust her tactics accordingly. She could feel the pressure of the ball beneath her fingertips, and know exactly how far it would travel once it left them. She could see players approaching from all sides while focusing on the ball flying towards her, and pick out the call of a teammate above the roar of a crowd.

As she walked through the corridors of her old school - her old home - she could hear the comments and see the laughter. But more often than that, she could hear people fall silent as she walked past, their conversations hushed. She could see them turn away as their eyes refused to meet hers.

She sighed, finally reaching the portrait which guarded the entrance to her new quarters. She placed her hand on the gilded frame to pull it back.

"These are the rooms of the first year Quidditch teacher and referee," the man in the picture snapped at her. "You should move along before you get reported for trespassing."

"But – that's me!" Rolanda stammered. She didn't even sound convincing to herself.

The figure in the portrait glanced down skeptically. "A likely story," he scoffed.

Rolanda sighed. "What would convince you?"

The portrait sniffed. "A word with the Headmaster will suffice."

He disappeared from the frame; she presumed to visit the Headmaster's office. Scowling, she pulled back the frame and entered her rooms. She supposed the portrait wouldn't want to face her when he found she was right, and she wasn't in the mood to face any more judgment for now. She had the Slytherins in an hour.

Looking around her room, she found it sparsely furnished. A comfortable-looking bed sat in the corner, alongside a matching table. A wardrobe took up the opposite side, and there was a small desk close to the door. The whole room had a gloomy feel to it, made worse by the dark oak furniture. Someone had kindly tried to brighten it up for her with a vase of roses on the desk, but they had wilted so much that they simply added to the sad atmosphere of the room.

She unpacked as she listened to the seconds tick by on the clock. She willed them to slow down, but they only seemed to taunt her by speeding up. Before she knew it, it was time to head out for her first lesson.

At least the pitch smelt like it used to, and it looked the same as when she'd lifted the cup in victory in her last year. The memories bought a smile to her face, and eased her nerves slightly. As she saw the First Years approaching she was even reminded of her first lesson. She'd fooled around on a broom at home, but she could never have predicted how flying would become her life.

The eager eleven year olds lined up in front of her impatiently, waiting to receive their broom. While she thought it was a bit unfair that she was being given Slytherins for her first lesson, she supposed she would at least be spared Muggleborns who would be wondering where the black cat would sit.

Once they all had a broom, Rolanda cleared her throat nervously.

"We'll be doing some theory today, just getting the broom to jump up to your hand and mounting it. If you manage that we'll run through how to make it fly so we can get straight on to that next time. Any questions?"

A few shook their heads, a couple ignored her and most just continued to stare at their brooms.

"Right, let's begin."

The lesson went quite well, or at least better than she'd ever hoped. The students all picked it up fairly quickly, the faster ones helping their friends out. She walked amongst them, offering tips and praise where she felt it was needed. She was pleased.

It was only when she came to collect the brooms that her good mood was shattered. As she tidied away in the shed, a group of First Years dawdled past; a tall blond boy flanked by two others.

"She used to be great," the blond one began. "My father took us to see a match that she was in and she was _incredible_. But there's no point in her being a teacher."

"Exactly, we've got to do more than theory. At this rate we're going to have to teach ourselves; it not like she can do demonstrations."

"Just wait until my father hears about this. He didn't think the injury was that bad, but once he hears about the limp…"

Their voices faded as they moved away. Or maybe she'd stopped listening as a means of self-preservation.

Rolanda knew what people thought of her. The Falcons had kept quiet about the injury, not wanting to worry the fans. When St. Mungo's had announced that she couldn't play again, the team had spouted some rubbish about "a dream to inspire the next generation" to cover up their lies. She had known that once people saw her,they wouldn't think she was well enough for the job. But it still hurt to hear eleven year olds condemn her.

She hurried back to her room as fast as she could; the stone walls echoing her uneven pace as if to mock her further. As she rounded a corner too quickly her weak leg gave way, landing her in a heap on the floor. As she pressed her head against the cool marble in an attempt to fight back tears she heard brisk footsteps approaching, accompanied by deep, male voices.

"Phineas should never have hired her; it's not fair to her or the students."

"It's more than that; she's incapable of doing the job she's been hired for! And you know we'll have to pick up the pieces."

Rolanda pressed herself against the wall so they couldn't see her as they passed. She caught a glimpse of them as they passed; two members of staff she didn't even know the names of yet.

She was done pretending. She wasn't going to ignore the comments and looks anymore, and brush them off like they didn't hurt. She'd show them that she deserved to be there.

As soon as she got to her room she changed for dinner. Normally she wouldn't bother with such formalities, but today she needed to make an impact. She picked out the brightest robes she owned (still only a pale blue) and pulled them over her flying gear. As she grabbed her broom she glanced at her watch. Dinner was just beginning. Perfect.

She paused when she reached the double doors, her hand hovering over her broom like she'd shown the First Years earlier. Taking a deep breath, she summoned the broom and swung her leg over it. Ignoring the pain that shot through her calf, Rolanda kicked into the air while pushing open the doors with her outstretched hand.

All eyes looked up in astonishment as she soared over the heads of the students. She raced a lap of the hall, climbing and diving as she went. Once completed, she flew low and fast over the Slytherin table, as close to it as she dared. Her eyes spotted the blond boy from earlier, and on a whim she grabbed the iced bun frozen mid-journey to his astonished mouth.

Landing gracefully next to the free seat at the staff table, Rolanda calmly dismounted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Turning to her left, she was delighted to find herself face to face with one of the teachers from the corridor.

She flashed him a wide grin.

"Iced bun?"


End file.
